


Doctor Who - Peter/You - What would Vermeer say to all this?

by Samstown4077



Series: You/real person - You/fictional character [6]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Humour, London, Sketching, Vermeer, drawing., meeting your fav artist, national gallerie, talks about art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Samstown4077
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You visit London and the National Gallery, deciding to do a sketching of the new Vermeer they have there. You can't know you will meet Peter Capaldi there. Fic request from one of my followers. Fluff. Friendship. Encouraging talk about drawing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Who - Peter/You - What would Vermeer say to all this?

**Author's Note:**

> One of my followers asked me to write a fic about them (being an drawing artist) meeting Peter Capaldi, and having a talk about art, and him just being a wonderful human being encouraging your writing talent. I usually don't post all those fics, or at least not so fast, but the person I wrote it for, told me it might would be great for others, as a lot people have doubts about their talents.
> 
> Johannes Vermeer was a Dutch painter, and Peter stated in interviews it's one of his favourite artists.

London. _What a beautiful city,_ you think. It’s your first time and you are overwhelmed with the beauty and all the sights. It had always been your dream to visit London one day, and now your dream had come true, and after spending a few days here you still can’t accept that you are in the middle of this pulsating city. Like New York, London seems never to sleep, and you enjoy your days with wandering around between Big Ben and the Parliament, Piccadilly Circus and driving around in one of the famous red double-decker buses.

At one of your days, you have wandered off from a couple of friends, finding yourself in front of the National Gallery of Art. 

How did you have almost missed to visit it? It’s one of your favourite galleries in the world. Not that you have visited many big galleries, but you have actually an imaginary list in your head, which of them you want to visit. This one is right on the top.

With a smile you decide to go inside, your backpack over one shoulder, with your tablet and your sketching notebook. You hadn’t found much time for doing some sketching, as you were so busy taking London in, but you sense, if there is a place for doing sketching, this will be it.

After paying the entry you slowly wander around, room by room, in awe over all the exhibits. You notice the crowd inside is not too big, it’s a sunny day outside, so lesser people inside. You don’t mind, you wouldn’t like to pull out your sketching notebook while ten pairs of eyes would observe you. Sketching is a personal thing, and you feel sometimes a bit unsure of your drawings and not being the most extrovert person you can’t deal very well with noisy questions.

You have wandered around for half an hour, when you find a room that is almost empty, just an older lady slowly wandering from one picture to the next, and one of the guards. In the middle, a bench without a rest, the seat surface covered in brown leather. Across from it, so you spot in delight, hangs a drawing from Vermeer. 

It’s _“The Astronomer”_ , a beautiful painting, of a young man, musing over a celestial globe. For some reason, the picture has always attracted you, not only because it was a brilliant painting, with a wonderful light and shadow composition, but of the topic. The stars. Like many generations before, you were always fascinated by the stars. Wondering how all this construct in the night sky really worked. Wishing with a smile to go up there, finding out more.

Maybe, so you wonder, it was Vermeer who brought you to Doctor Who. To the mad man with this blue wooden box, whisking away little pudding brains into the sky. You can’t tell for sure. Actually, you think it was Doctor Who, who brought you to Vermeer in the end.

Being very passionate about the show, you know of your favourite Doctor and actor, Peter Capaldi, an artist himself, having a hang for Vermeer and Rembrandt.

Glancing around again, you notice the older lady has left and now you decide to take your chance and sit down, pulling out your notebook. It’s probably a bit megalomaniac, as you are anything but Vermeer, but here is the chance, the room, the time — you will sketch this painting. You will fail with flying colours, you think, but what the hell. No one is watching, no one will know.

Taking a deep breath, you slowly start to slide with your pen over the paper. You start with the pose of the man, sitting by the table. You haven’t sketched in a while, and your hand feels rusty and your movements feel clumsy, but you also feel with every minute that goes by you get more at ease again. It comes back, like riding a bicycle. And when your first draft is finished, you decide to go for another, this time allowing yourself more patience.

Minutes pass, and you are so absorbed into your doing, that you don’t realize that you are no more alone. And then all too suddenly, while you draw line over line over the paper, the tip of the pencil breaks, and a gasp escapes your lips, “Shit!”

Perplexed you stare down your paper, and the nasty little dot the broken pencil has left in your sketch. For a moment you don’t know what to do, you don’t have another pencil and your sharpener is broken — _what kind of artists are you_ , you scold yourself.

Still unaware of the company you have since a while, someone brings another pencil into your field of view, “Will that help? I have quit a few. Hate it when it happens, so I always bring quite a bunch.”

You take in the hand that holds the pen, following the arm, to the body it is attached to, staring into a face filled with a soft smile. 

You know that smile, you know those blue, greenish eyes and those very familiar eyebrows, which slowly go up. You not really want to know how you look in that moment, but it is probably not your best moment, while you stare at the man — mouth open — you have seen quit a thousand times in pictures, in movies and in interviews. Also never in real.

Peter Capaldi still holds the pen in front of you, aware that you went in some sort of shock. For a moment unsure, he glances from left to the right. He can assume you know who he is, “It’s just a pen, not the sonic screwdriver,” he nudges the thing gently against your hand, that rests on your notebook.

Looking down, you take it from him, finally shaking yourself out of the shock, “Yes. Sorry. I... ,” nervousness overwhelms you, and you hectically first look at him, then your sketch, and in a mild panic attack, you close it with a thumb. “Thanks… b-but I was finished. I think.”

Peter is a highly gifted man, and he is also very good with empathy. He knows why you react like this, “You don’t have to stop because of me.”

You are somehow glad he doesn’t ask you, if he shall leave you alone again, because you would have been so unable to say anything else, as that he might should, and that is the last thing you want him to do. Still sorting out the words in your head, your eyes drop to his lap, in which a notebooks lies, and you can see he was sketching too.

Following your glance, he raises the notebook slightly to give you a better look. He was sketching also the picture of Vermeer. His attempt is slightly different to yours. While he uses a fine pencil, you had put much strength in your lines, making them strong and expressive.

“I like the way he uses light and shadow in his paintings,” he points at the drawing for a moment. “See how the light … breaks around his cloak. It looks easy but…”

“... it’s not,” you finish, finally having found your speech again. And after a moment of hesitation, you open your notebook again. “It’s rather challenging. It’s killing me actually.”

Peter chuckles, “Me too. You did better as I did!” You give him a polite smile, and he reads it very well, “You think I just said that to make you feel better, right?”

A heavy blush races over your face, because he has hit the nail on the head, “Well… I am not Vermeer obviously.” It’s all you can say, it’s not a lie and it also implies that you feel insecure about your own talent.

“Me neither,” he smirks, and then holds out his hand. “I am Peter by the way… I think you know, but…”

“Yeah, I know,” you laugh, and take his hand. His hand is warm and soft and his fingers are indeed incredibly long, as you know from pictures. “Doctor.”

“You come here more often?” he asks curious.

“No, I am just on vacation here in London,” you explain, wondering how that has happened now. Having a casually convo with the Doctor in the National Gallery.

“Really? First time London?” you nod. “That’s wonderful. Do you like it?”

“Who doesn’t like London?” you ask with a smirk. “I’ve already seen a lot of the sights. It’s fantastic! Busy, but _fantastic_.” You are not aware you use the ninth Doctor’s words, and only realize it when Peter smirks over your words. “Oh, no,... did I just really make a Doctor Who reference?”

“Shall I admit something? I love Doctor Who references! I do them all the time, so nothing to feel bad about,” his voice is low and gentle. He is excited to talk with you, not one minute you have the feeling that you hold him back from something more important. It’s what you have heard about Peter Capaldi, that he makes everyone feel special.

“And you? Coming here often?” his warm being, allows you to be more courageous, and you you feel your heart settle back a bit.

He places the pen onto the pages, and rubs his face, thinking, “It’s been a while, to be honest. Haven’t been here for like six months, filming keeps one busy, you must know. But when I heard they have a new Vermeer here, I needed to come. It’s a nice place for sketching too, I do this so rarely since I play the Doctor.”

You can hear that he misses sitting somewhere in an open, public space to sketch people, something he can’t do on a daily basis, as everyone knows him. He probably knew that not many people would be in the gallery as it was a sunny day outside.

“I don’t sketch that much as I want to, too,” you sigh. “School keeps me busy, and then… .” You shrug, why should you bother him with your doubts about your own talents.

“And then… what? Come on, don’t leave me hanging,” he bumps against your shoulder with his.

For a moment your mouth makes the attempt to speak but it ends in a silent stammer, because you want to say three things at the same time, and then you finally manage, “I don’t think I am good enough.”

“Are _yer_ kidding me?” his heavy Scottish accent slips through in his surprise. Then he points with his flat hand at the open sketchbook.

“It’s just a sketch, that went lucky,” you huff, “I usually do more comic style.”

You can feel his eyes rest on you, and you don’t know how to react to it, then a smile spreads over his face, and he starts flipping through his sketchbook, and then, when he has found what he was looking for, he brings it closer to you, “Something we have in common then, because I do comic style too.” 

The page shows a whole scenery of Daleks and Cybermen, in the middle the silhouette of the Doctor, you assume it’s the eleventh. It reminds you at a scene from the Christmas Special “The Time of the Doctor”. It’s all drawn with a black marker and … well, more a comic as a Vermeer.

“Looks awesome,” you smile, and slowly grasp what he wants to tell you.

“Do you sometimes stop drawing and then, wake up at night or lose track in school, because you feel this itch?” he then asks. “This _need_ to draw?”

You look at him with wide open eyes, “Y-yes… I do.”

“Listen, I know, drawing is never easy, it’s hard work, day after day, but the important thing is, when it makes you happy, even if it is devastating sometimes, — just do it. Keep going. Don’t be too critical with yourself, because we all are our worst critics and do you know what you have to tell your worst critic sometimes?”

“N-no?”

“When I have those doubts, with acting or drawing, I tell myself, _‘Shut the f- up’!_ ” he grins. “Works fine for me. Maybe you should try it.”

You can’t do anything but smile over his advice, it’s so honest, so true and you know it, “I think I will.”

Both of you share an understanding smile, between artists, then he suddenly rips out the drawing from his sketchbook, and holds it toward you, “How about trading?”

“Trading?” you can’t follow.

“You get mine, and I get yours,” again he flashes you one of his doctorish ‘all teeth’ grins. “So when you get famous, I’ll can sell it for a million pounds or so.”

“Very funny,” you tease. “A million would be underselling.”

“That’s the spirit,” he points at you. “So wanna do that?”

You think about it for a second and then think, this chance will never ever happen again, and hand over your sketchbook, “Absolutely. Here. But I have to warn you, it’s mainly Doctor Who fanart.”

He flips through your book and when he comes to the first drawing of him and Clara, he points at it, “Ah, look, that’s me and Jenna!” as if you didn’t know. “There are great! Really! You have a favour for 12 and Clara, huh?”

“Thank you,” you blush, lowering your head. “It’s a great pairing.”

He stops in his tracks for a moment, “Yes, indeed. I am going to miss her on set,” then he flips open the page with one of your drawings of Clara and 12 you have done for Inktober. 12 with his sunglasses and Clara in her leather jacket, and a banner that connects the both drawings, saying “The Doctor and Clara Oswald”, “This! Would that be okay?”

“It’s yours,” you motion and he slowly takes it out of the notebook.

“Here,” he then holds it toward you. “You have to sign it and write “For Peter” on it.”

Is this really happening? Is Peter Capaldi, the star of your favourite tv-show asking you, to sign your drawing and even dedicate it to him. And while you still process all this, he takes his own drawing and signs it, dedicating it to you.

You sign your own drawing in some sort of daze, writing very carefully down his name, afraid to make an error, but when you have done it, you feel that you are rather proud. Of the picture and that Peter Capaldi will take it with him, “Here.”

“Thank you, I love it, I really do,” he carefully places the drawing into his notebook so it will not crinkle or get lost. “Uhm, do you wanna take a selfie? You, me, and… the Vermeer?”

The way he says it, it makes you laugh, as if it’s something indecent, what it is slightly, as taking pictures is highly forbidden. The signs are everywhere, and that’s what you tell Peter, “I don’t think we are allowed to take pictures.” 

Peter eyes the guard that stands by the entrance of the room, the man is slightly overweight and looks rather bored, he actually has his phone out, texting. Then he leans over to you, whispering, “Look at him, you think he is going to stop us. Let’s be a bit adventures.”

He is right, as usual, you think, and so you pull out your phone from your backpack, not without looking from left to the right, quickly starting the camera program. And Peter does the same with his phone. “Ready?” he asks and you nod, with a bright smile, and you both check again the room, there is just another older couple, looking at a picture on the other side of the room.

You both walk over to the Vermeer, just a couple of steps away and then turn around. Peter eyes the guard for a moment, the man is still busy, then everything goes very fast, he brings an arm around you, looks behind him, to find the right angle so the drawing will be seen on the picture. Then he shuffles with you a bit to the right, “Now or never! And don’t forget to smile! You first!”

You bring up the camera and he pulls you even closer, needs to bent a bit, as he is so tall, and then you press the shutter, “Done!”

Then Peter brings up his phone and does the same, “Say sonic screwdriver!”

You both need to laugh about it so loud, that the couple turns toward you, scrutinizing you, but Peter just shrugs it off, walking back to the bench with you, “That was fun! Look!” he shows you the picture he has taken, it’s perfect as yours.

“I never thought you were like this,” you then say.

“I take that as a compliment,” he smirks, biting his lower lip. “Well, I think I got to go. It was really nice meeting you.”

“It was nice meeting you too,” once again you take his hand and he shakes it gently. “It was lovely. Take care of my drawing, don’t you sell it.”

It makes him laugh hearty, “Never ever, Doctor’s promise,” he says with a smoulder. “And you never give up drawing, not as long as it makes you happy, even when it’s hard sometimes, yes?”

You nod, “I promise,” and he points at you, and takes his stuff from the bench.

“See ya round,” he winks, and then he is gone and you stand there, looking at the Vermeer for a moment, unsure if this really just has happened.

Maybe it was just a dream, a very lucid dream, and then you open your notebook, and there it is, Peter’s drawing.

The guard is still texting, and you sit there, opening the one page again, where you have stopped the moment before Peter has given you his pencil. You still have it, and then you keep sketching for a bit. 

Before you leave, you look at the selfie with Peter, you and the Astronomer. It’s a bit like the Doctor has whisked you away, travelling back in time, to say hello to Johannes Vermeer, and to take a selfie with him. You laugh, while standing in front of the gallery.

“What’s so funny?” one of your friends approaches you. “Man, I thought we’ve lost you. Where have you been?”

“Sketching.”

“Sketching?”

“Yeah, another word for drawing,” you point at the gallery behind you.

“Okay, but you missed all the fun,” your friend says.

You only smile at her, knowing better, “Nah, I don’t think so,” and with padding your notebook, you pass your friend. You know there is a blue, wooden, police box somewhere in this town.

It’s time to look at the real sights.

 

**Author's Note:**

> In case you liked this story, I would love to read your opinion on this one! Thank you all! In case you are interested in a personalized fic too, don't hesitate to contact me!


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